22 September 1881

Yesterday and today have been, well, quite difficult, and I did not get a chance to write in this journal last night.

Yesterday, I was dreaming of going home to Auld Reekie when, at breakfast, Mr. Tatum, rather more forcefully than necessary, took me away to the British Embassy. I was tired and hungry and did not enjoy the ride, even though the carriage was drawn by four splendid, matching black horses.

At the embassy, an armed guard passed us on to an undersecretary and thence to the inner sanctum of Sir John Ecclestone, her Majesty’s Ambassador to the Russian court. Sir John, for all his sixty years, was a handsome man and a flinty, hardened veteran of many a diplomatic war. He offered no refreshment and didn’t waste time with small talk, but bore into me with his stern, grey eyes. “Mr. Doyle, Her Majesty, the Queen, is disturbed by the recent attempts on the life of Tsar Alexander III, and rightly so.”

I stood rigidly at attention, wondered what was coming, and dared return his penetrating gaze.

“Mr. Tatum has made you privy to the Queen’s request that we do everything possible to prevent his assassination. Is that not correct?

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“Then, why does the Russian Secret Service claim you were involved with an assassination plot?”

“I was actually attempting to STOP the plot.”

“You are an embarrassment to the Crown, Mr. Doyle.”

“Sir, I came here to assist Dr. Bell, but now, I would actually prefer to be home in Edinburgh!” I was about to make a more impudent reply but Mr. Tatum pinched my arm. “Mr. Tatum and I did our best to warn the tsar, but the police took me in custody and I spent several bloody miserable days in prison on false charges. I have done more than my fair share for the Crown, sir,” I choked out.

The ambassador made the smallest hint of a smile as if he was laying a clever trap. “Yes, that is in your favour, and as a result, you are well positioned to be of further service to the Queen.”

“I would be honored to help, sir, but I must decline.”

“And why is that, Mr. Doyle?”

“I am sympathetic with the plight of the Russian people.”

“Your sympathies are of no concern to me. You will do your duty or face the consequences.”

“Consequences?”

“Your father could find himself incarcerated for his debts. His brother, your uncle, is a known supporter of the Irish cause. He may find himself under lock and key, and you may be tarred with the same brush. It could be difficult to practice your profession with such a stigma attached to your name.”

I had never been threatened in such a way before. I gulped, thought for a moment, and then chose my words carefully. “I understand the global ramifications if the tsar and his government are brought down, but, with all due respect, who is to govern Russia is a matter for the Russian people and of little consequence to the British Empire.”

“You are quite naïve, Mr. Doyle.” Sir John beckoned us to a map of Europe and the Middle East on a large, well-polished rosewood table. “The Franco-Prussian War upset the balance of European power. Germany has the upper hand - not only in Europe, but in the Ottoman Empire. The Germans have financed and engineered railroads from Istanbul to Damascus and Baghdad that threaten our lines of communication from Egypt to India through the Suez Canal. The death of another tsar will lead to chaos in Russia. Germany will dominate Europe, the Middle East, and Russia all the way to the Urals.”

“What is Germany’s motive?”

“The age of coal and steam is over.” He tapped his finger on the map and traced a line from Baghdad to the Black Sea. “The future is oil, Mr. Doyle, oil. If Russia falls into chaos, Germany will control the world’s greatest oilfields. In a few years, the world will run on oil. A strong tsar is necessary to hold Russia together and to be Britain’s ally against Germany.”

“All that is well and good, sir, but what do you want of me?” I asked.

“Nothing more than what you’ve already done. Continue your involvement with the student anarchists and keep your eyes open for the British officer, David Campbell, who intends to kill the tsar.

The ambassador clipped the end of a cigar and sniffed its aroma. “You have had some involvement with Miss Walshingham, a clever woman who has made herself indispensable with the Duchess of Edinburgh,” he said, rather offhand. The ambassador lit a lucifer and thoughtfully rotated his cigar in the flame until it glowed. “That clever lady is an enigma. Where do her sympathies lie?” Aha, I thought. This must be the real reason for my summons to the Ambassador. “I am sure she is a loyal British subject,” I said. I hoped the ambassador did not detect the lack of certainty in my words.

Sir John waved us away with a curt dismissal. “My secretary will fill you in with the details.”

Adrian, the secretary, spoke in a condescending, plumy, upper-class English voice. His large, red nose showed the effects of an affectionate relationship with the bottle. I hated him on the spot, especially when he compelled us to take an oath of allegiance to the Queen.

He then handed me a small document. “This will identify you as an agent of the British government. It may be of some use if the Okhrana stops you again.” Next, Adrian’s well-manicured hand pushed a small box across the desk containing a two-inch, .40 calibre derringer pistol and twenty brass cartridges. His voice turned cold. “Conceal this on your person. You are to kill, if necessary, to protect the tsar and his relationship with the crown. Miss Walshingham and her deceased husband’s associates may be enemies of England. Kill them, as well, but only if necessary.”

I abruptly left Mr. Tatum at the embassy, went straight home, found Sasha lazing in the kitchen, and set off at a near-trot with the dog running at my side. We left the large homes and bypassed the factories. The whole time, my mind was in a whirl; I could not possibly kill Penelope. Would that make me a traitor? I desperately yearned to return to Edinburgh, remove myself from all this deadly international intrigue, and get on with the practice of medicine.

The exercise cleared my head, and it was good to get away from the stench and noise of the city. After a few miles, we came upon summer houses with green gardens. Sasha’s comic antics soothed my troubled soul. She gaily chased rabbits, and when her eyes fastened on a bird, she pointed with her nose and delicately raised her front paw.

After a long, invigorating walk, we came to the dockyards, rested on the embankment, and watched ships coming and going in the harbor. There were many Russian navy vessels and ships with every European flag in the anchorage. It is getting to be fall and a cold wind whipped a chop in the water. I shivered, found shelter in a cheap tavern, and made a hearty workman’s lunch of beer, black bread, and soup.

Sasha, with a grateful wag of her tail, finished the scraps, while the jovial proprietor explained how business had picked up with the gathering of the Baltic fleet for the tsar’s review. It seemed as if all of St. Petersburg was anxious to see the tsar come out of his self-enforced isolation to review the fleet.

I dawdled in the long, northern evening and didn’t arrive home until late. Marya fluttered over Sasha. “They are waiting for you, Arthur. You must hurry to Dr. Bell’s room,” she whispered.

I sniffed the fragrant blue smoke from Dr. Bell’s great, curved Meerschaum even before I arrived at his room. It meant he was deep in thought or troubled by a new case. Professor Sechenov paced the room in a state of high agitation, but Dr. Bell at his desk, sorted surgical instruments and peered at the labels of medicine bottles. “One cannot predict whether these cases require an operation or will be amenable to medicines,” he said.

Sechenov wrung his hands. “We must hurry. Countess Tolstaya’s message indicated great urgency and it is a long way to Tsarskoye Selo. The royal carriage is waiting and we must go.”

I was tired from the long walk, but sensed another adventure.

“Ah, Doyle, lad. We must leave at once. Take the instrument case and let us be on our way. Professor Sechenov will explain everything,” said Bell, as he packed the last bottle.

The gold gilt carriage with red wheels drawn by four shiny, white horses was indeed a royal means of travel. The driver and his assistant, in green and gold uniforms, could have passed as generals in the army.

The assistant leaped down from his high perch and handed us in to the spacious interior with soft velvet seats. There was room to stretch out and sleep, but Professor Sechenov aroused my curiosity. “Professor Sechenov, you mentioned Countess Tolstaya. Is there any chance we will meet her husband, Count Tolstoy, the great writer?” I asked.

“Bah, I think not. The man has become a socialist reformer. Many think he is mad, especially when he speaks of anarchy. The fool is totally out of favour, but his wife, the countess, is not. She is a lady-in-waiting to the empress, Maria Feodorovna.”

“What is the medical problem?”

“The empress was enjoying the gardens at Tsarskoye Selo when she became ill with terrible abdominal pain. I fear it may be an inflammation of the appendix, the American disease. Her physician thinks it is a medical problem,” Professor Sechenov said.

“Who is the physician?” Dr. Bell asked.

“It is quite awkward. He is a German specialist and physician to Princess Yurievskaya.

“Who is this princess?” Dr. Bell asked.

Professor Sechenov pursed his lips. “It is a sorry episode in the lives of the royal family. When the wife of Alexander II became ill, he took a commoner, a woman named Dolgorukov as his mistress. After his wife died, he married the woman, but instead of making her his empress, he gave her the title, Princess Yurievskaya. She is jealous of the Empress Maria for taking her place in the royal household.”

“Where is the tsar?” Dr. Bell asked.

“Somewhere in the wilderness with his friends, hunting bears.” The lengthening Russian night was upon us, when, beneath a misty full moon, we rolled into the courtyard at the gates of Catherine the Great’s palace. Servants with lanterns led us through gilded corridors to the bedroom of Empress Maria Feodorovna.

In the light of a single candle, I could appreciate magnificent gilt chairs, carved tables, velvet wall hangings, brocade curtains, and, in the middle of the room, our patient was covered by rumpled quilts in a great four-poster, canopied bed. Except for the sound of raspy breathing and her occasional moan or a low scream, the room was deathly silent. A servant girl with trembling fingers first rubbed the empress’s hands and then applied a compress of cold water to her face.

Professor Sechenov was clearly in awe of his surroundings. “C-countess Sophia Tolstaya, may I p-p-present Professor Joseph Bell,” he stammered.

The countess Tolstaya, a middle-aged woman with a tired, lined face, was dressed in severe, black, mourning clothes in respect for the assassinated Alexander II. She wracked with sobs and held a tear-soaked handkerchief to her face. She said nothing, but nodded briefly to Dr. Bell.

The other person in the sick room was a handsomely-dressed gentleman wearing a monocle attached to a long, red ribbon who hovered at the bedside holding a large syringe. He clicked his heels and made a little bow. “Boris Meyer, Doctor of Medicine, University of Berlin and senior physician to Princess Yurievskaya. I am about to administer a stimulant.” I remembered Vera saying that the Russian elite preferred German or French doctors to Russian physicians.

Dr. Bell approached the bed, pushing the German aside. “More light, please.”

The servant girl rushed to ignite gas lamps, and in their bright glare, I could see the pale, sweaty face of the empress. She was beautiful, with large, round eyes that were dimmed with pain and fever.

The German, Dr. Meyer, lowered the syringe and he sadly shook his head. “The empress is in extremis. You have made a needless trip. If this injection doesn’t restore her to health, she is doomed.”

Dr. Bell ignored the man and took up her wrist. “It is too fast to count,” he said. The German was a thickset fellow with big shoulders, a pointed beard, and wooly eyebrows. He carefully placed the syringe on a table and stepped between Bell and the patient. “I say, there is no need for your examination. This is my case.”

Bell ignored the man and pulled away the quilts.

Meyer attempted to restrain him and there ensued a pushing match. “Listen, you damn English pest, leave her alone!”

Nothing angered Bell more than to be called English. He was Scottish to the bone. I barely saw his short punch, but Meyer staggered back. His face reddened. “Gott damn you!” he bellowed.

He came back at Dr. Bell, but with an old trick learned on the rugby field, I caught his foot with my ankle and tripped him up before he could reach Bell.

Meyer fell, sprawling on a bright blue carpet, blood spurting from his nose. The Countess Tolstaya and Professor Sechenov huddled in a corner, aghast at the display of professional temperament. “I will get the guard!” Meyer shouted.

“Good riddance to you, sir. Doyle, lock the door and we will go to work,” Dr. Bell said. I turned the lock. Bell first held a candle to her eyes. Then, with his ear to her chest, he listened to the heart and lungs and finally palpated her abdomen. “What is this?” He pointed to a purple swelling on her left arm. “Countess, please tell me exactly the sequence of events that led to her illness.”

In that moment, the empress clutched her abdomen with both hands and a long, drawn out scream came from her blue lips. Then, her head drew back and her limbs went rigid. Her back arched, and her legs and arms beat an angry, painful rhythm against the bed. At last, in the mere flicker of a candle, the convulsion ended, her eyes opened in terror, and her breathing just stopped. All her muscles were in spasm.

“Crivvens! Doyle, give her ether - NOW! We must break the spasm or she will die!”

I could not imagine giving ether, a drug known to depress respirations, to a patient who was not breathing. Bell pulled the bottle of ether from his medicine case.

“Sir, she isn’t breathing. Ether will surely bring her end sooner,” I said.

“Damn you! Just start the ether!”

With shaking hands, I poured a few drops of the pungent anaesthetic on a folded handkerchief held over her face. For a horribly bloody-long moment, all seemed lost.

But then, after what must have been thirty seconds, she made a choking noise deep in her throat and took in a short, strangled breath. I took away the ether.

“Michty me!” Bell shouted. “Keep giving the ether!”

She took another short breath and her spasms eased. Her neck relaxed and her arms went limp, but she continued to breathe.

I touched her forehead. “Sir, her skin is hot, as if she were on fire.”

Bell ran the back of his hand over her face. “Sechenov, Madam Tolstaya, please, we need ice. Get ice and cold water.”

The maid flew out of the room, followed by the countess. It seemed like forever, but in what must have really only been five minutes, they returned, accompanied by two sleepy young men, each carrying two buckets of ice. They left their cold burdens and, with terror in their eyes, departed in haste.

“Lock the door again,” Bell said. He then stripped the quilts and bedding away from the empress.

“No, you mustn’t expose the empress!” Countess Tolstaya shouted.

“Cover her with sheets soaked in ice water,” Bell said.

Outside, Dr. Meyer demanded entrance and guards pounded on the door. The noise aroused the entire palace, but we refused to unlock the door.

Through the uproar, we heard shouting. “The empress is dead! They murdered the empress! Oh, God save us. Where is the tsar? Call the tsar!”

“Och!” Bell removed the Webley revolver from the instrument case and handed it to the professor. “Sechenov, shoot anyone who comes through that door. We must not be disturbed.”

The whole mad ordeal continued until the grey light of a false dawn seeped through the windows. As tiny fingers of light poked into the room, the empress’s fever came down and the spasms grew less frequent.

I gradually reduced the dose of ether as her breathing became deep and regular. Dr. Bell sat at the bedside and timed her pulse with his folding gold watch. “Her heartbeat is down to one hundred.”

Dr. Bell put away his watch and, after examining the swollen purple bruise, turned to Countess Tolstaya. “Countess, now please tell us the exact sequence of events.”

The countess, who had been violently sobbing wiped away her tears. “We were in the English garden, admiring the flowers and having tea, when Princess Yurievskaya sent her maid with a gift for the empress, which was wrapped in beautiful red silk...” She took a deep breath and continued. “The note said the princess wished to make amends and be friends with the empress.” Countess Tolstaya was again wracked with violent sobs.

“Please, go on,” Dr. Bell said.

She collected herself and continued to speak. “We returned to this room to open the present. There, on the table... The crumpled silk wrapper lay next to five beautifully-carved matryoshka dolls, each smaller than the next so they nestled inside one another. The dolls represented traditional peasant girls, except for the smallest, a baby.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Bell said.

“Princess Yurievskaya had them specially carved. The empress removed the dolls, one by one. She was almost childlike with her delight, but after removing the last doll, she cried out with pain and clutched her wrist. I thought she had a minor sprain, but almost immediately, she complained of pain in her stomach and went to bed.”

“And then?” Bell asked.

“I sent for Professor Sechenov, and later, Princess Yurievskaya kindly sent her personal physician. He was about to administer an injection when you arrived. He left the syringe on the dresser.”

“Ah, ha...” Professor Bell inspected each of the dolls and, with a certain amount of theatrical flair, removed the remains of a brown insect from inside the last and smallest doll. “There is our culprit.”

He held up the tiny, brown object. “The remains of a male of the species, Latrodectus Theridiidae, better known as the Black Widow Spider. The female devoured her mate and then bit the empress on the wrist.”

“Are you certain?” Professor Sechenov asked.

“Aye. See here.” He pointed to the empress’s wrist. “A small punctuate wound in the middle of the purple swelling. Severe abdominal pain and muscle spasms are typical symptoms. The question remains, how did the spider get into the dolls?”

The empress opened her eyes and gazed about the room. “The noise, please stop the terrible racket,” she whispered.

“ENOUGH!” The countess flew to the door. “The empress lives. Do not disturb her. She needs peace and quiet.”

The shouting subsided, but Dr. Meyer continued to demand entrance. The countess admonished him and he skulked away.

“It would be difficult for a spider to enter the smallest doll. Could it have been placed there on purpose?” Professor Sechenov asked.

“I believe so... And there is more.” Dr. Bell closely examined the syringe with its contents that Dr. Meyer intended to administer to the empress. “I suggest you analyze the contents of this syringe for strychnine.”

“Strychnine?” Professor Sechenov asked.

“Strychnine causes the exact same symptoms as the bite of the Black Widow Spider. The venom causes muscle spasm, a high fever, and death by asphyxia. Meyer may have intended to poison the empress, and if there was suspicion, he would have produced the spider and claimed the death was accidental. Perhaps it is just as well that the spider bit her before he had a chance to give the poison.”

The door flew open. A captain of the guards entered with a drawn saber and Meyer at his side. “Arrest these men!” Dr. Meyer shouted.

In an instant, Dr. Bell snatched up the syringe and placed the needle against Dr. Meyer’s arm. The German doctor’s face contorted. “No, please... Not that, please!”

“Confess, or I will inject the contents. It is strychnine, is it not?”

Meyer blubbered, broke down, and under Dr. Bell’s prodding with the needle, admitted he had planned the empress’s death. The guards took him away. The unknowing servants continued to clamor for our deaths, but thanks to Madame Tolstaya, we hurried away unmolested.

This evening, I was enjoying a bit of Dr. Bell’s single malt whiskey while Professor Sechenov soundly beat Dr. Bell at chess. “Dr. Bell, congratulations, you were entirely correct about the empress and the strychnine. I must say, I am impressed,” Sechenov said, as if to make amends.

The Professor bowed, and just the tiniest hint of a smile crossed his lips.

Mr. Tatum looked up from a two week old London Times. “Where have you gentlemen been?”

“Oh, out and about,” I answered, cheekily.

“Well, when you were out and about, I gleaned some interesting information through a friend. I have been told that The Russian Secret Service brought in a German physician for the attempted murder of the empress.”

“Really?” I smiled at Dr. Bell who did not return the smile.

“Yes, and during the interrogation, a very agitated Princess Yurievskaya arrived and accused the poor man of attempting to murder both her and the empress. She insisted on immediate punishment by burning his tongue with a red hot poker. The doctor died almost instantly.”

Dr. Bell leaned back, extended his long legs, folded his hands over his chest and muttered to himself. “Was he acting alone, or was he part of a more sinister plot to destroy the royal family?”

“My concern exactly,” Mr. Tatum said.

Dr. Bell puffed his pipe for a moment. “There may be three factions interested in killing the tsar - the student anarchists, perhaps the Germans, and we still haven’t found the English officer, Campbell.”

“The Okhrana has effectively destroyed the student groups. What is Penelope up to? Is she working with the German or is she still loyal to the Queen?” I asked, both out of curiosity and hoping I might get some inside information which I could use to ultimately win her affections.

“Mr. Doyle, that little problem may be in your hands,” Mr. Tatum said.

Dr. Bell blew a perfect smoke ring. “In the meantime, Doyle, don’t neglect your medical education. You have a woeful lack of knowledge concerning common poisons.”

Bell had not lost his knack for making me feel inferior, but with twinkly eyes, he tossed a well-thumbed volume of Lucifer’s Common Poisons onto my lap. “Study this with care if you have any interest in forensic medicine.”